If an Angel Falls in Mayfair
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale is trying to get lost in the pages of his book, but with his husband thinking hard enough to burn the flat down, it's becoming impossible. Especially since Aziraphale knows what he's thinking about. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Written for Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompts 'love'.**_

Aziraphale's eyes flit up from the page of his book.

Five minutes later, they flit up again.

And again after only two minutes and some.

He's been trying for most of the evening to get lost in the new Balzac he acquired, published in its original French (which he thought might help him sharpen his woeful skills), but his moody demon is proving too great a distraction.

Aziraphale peeks over at his husband sitting on the opposite end of the sofa in front of the fireplace, gazing into the flames as if searching among the dancing licks and burning logs for answers. Aziraphale sighs, his eyes forgetting his book altogether and lingering on Crowley's conflicted face.

Crowley could go to Aziraphale for answers. Aziraphale would give him all the answers he's searching for.

The questions are about _him_ anyway.

Crowley isn't a difficult demon to read.

Aziraphale knows what he's considering.

He knows it by the glint in Crowley's eyes, the creases in his forehead, the way he rolls his wine glass between the fingers of his right hand.

Aziraphale should feel grateful that he's at least considering it, even if his answer is always _no_.

They've talked about it and talked about it.

They've talked about it until they stopped talking about it.

And then the subject didn't come up again.

Crowley says he wants to be right with it.

Aziraphale said he already is.

But since one alone does not equal two, they've waited.

And they've waited.

But now there's a new look in Crowley's eyes, a new line between his brows.

A new sense of understanding tightening the corners of his mouth.

He's come to terms, it may seem.

He's decided.

And as glad as Aziraphale is about that, he wishes it would breed something more along the lines of excitement in his husband instead of despair.

Well.

This is going to be fun.

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it aside. "So … is tonight to be the night then, my dear?" he asks, moving closer, mildly teasing.

"I guess," Crowley grumbles, slugging back his wine.

Aziraphale frowns. "Don't go sounding too excited about it or anything."

Crowley sighs this time, dredging up his soul, deep enough to blow the fire out. "Aziraphale …"

"No, no, no," Aziraphale cuts in, genuinely hurt by his husband's bleak response. "Sorry if I'm putting you out."

"Angel …"

"Who knows? Maybe _I'm_ wrong. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all."

"It's not … it's not that. You know it's not that."

"What is it then?"

"We've talked about this!" Crowley slumps in his seat, regards his empty wine glass. With a snap of his fingers, he fills it again.

He might need the alcohol.

"I want to be with you, Aziraphale! I do! More than you even realize! But forgive me if I'm not too thrilled over the idea of losing you!"

Aziraphale's eyes roll unintentionally. "You're not going to _lose_ me."

"I don't know that!" Crowley snaps. He sits up straight, suddenly uncomfortable reclining on the couch. "And frankly, _you_ don't know it, either! I'm not a big fan of wandering blindly into the unknown, so what do you want from me!?"

"Love? Desire?" Aziraphale's eyes twinkle. "A little lust might be nice. Because if we do this, we should be all in! Or else, is it even worth it?" He scoots closer, trying to pull the focus of yellow eyes that have yet to leave the fire. "But I'll tell you what I _don't_ want. I don't want resignation. _Or_ lukewarm acceptance. Aren't you the one always saying if you're going to go, go in style?"

"I didn't mean you," Crowley says softly. "And I do feel those things. But unfortunately, fear's in there, too. And it seems to be winning out right now."

"That's all right. But we can't live in fear. Not for the rest of our lives. I don't want to make love to a hole in a mattress because you're too terrified to move forward." Aziraphale's eyebrows lift, pleading in that way Crowley never can resist. "So please? Move forward with me?"

"And what if you Fall, hmm?" Crowley asks, setting his wine aside in favor of accepting his husband onto his lap. "Then what do we do?"

Aziraphale smiles. "Hold my hand." His fingers find the collar of Crowley's shirt and start undoing the buttons, fingertips sliding along the skin of Crowley's throat in a gentle caress. "And pray I land on my feet."


End file.
